For years, my mom ironed. I would go take a nap on some days, wake up, make dinner, and watch a TV show and she would still be ironing. She’d have a pile and a look of contentedness on her brow as she served her family and the world by ironing. She would magically transform wrinkly cloths into masterpieces WITH creases.
So yesterday, I was sitting on my dorm bed (which I will be sitting on until May 2011, but that’s going to be explained in my next blog entry) and a Voice from Above told me I needed to iron. I didn’t listen for about 20 minutes, then I slowly arose from my throne and pillow and picked out 4 pairs of pants and 1 shirt for this week’s professional attire that I would be donning. As my iron heated, I found my starch and unfolded the ironing board. I went really slow so I could psych myself into the ironing process. Yay for chores!!!...??
I successfully ironed my first pair of pants. Second. Third…. Fourth. Then I needed to quit. I had a flashback of my mom with 20 shirts and 10 pants with that contemplative look on her brow.
“I must…I must…I must…continue.”
About ½ way through my first shirt and last item to iron, my starch-applying right-index finger started speaking to my brain telling my cranium that it was no longer interested in spraying starch. My abs were sore from swaying back and forth, back and forth with the gliding of the iron. My ears were sore from listening to the starch burn itself into the straightness of my pants. My feet hurt. My back hurt. My eyes even hurt.
Although my pants and shirt experience was EPIC success, I am quite grateful that I am not required to do this job to eat.
So…with all that being said. Thanks Mom!
JLP
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